Paint Me a Portrait
by DragonWolfStar
Summary: Reid knew it was a bad idea for the team to meet Neal, especially the way they did.  Women are frightening at the best of times…


A/N: Slashy suggestions, but no _actual_ slash here. Enjoy!

Paint Me a Portrait

Reid sighed to himself as he and Emily walked through yet another small-time gallery featuring artists no one had ever heard of. Sure, art was an enriching experience, but that didn't mean he wanted to travel to three different galleries in one day.

He grimaced as he realized it could have been a lot more. These tiny shows didn't garner a lot of publicity, and in a city like New York, there could be dozens going on at the same time.

As it was the unsub had already displayed bodies in nine different galleries, and the team had split up to look through them all and question the staff. Victimology and the geographical profile would have to wait until they'd been to all of the crime scenes.

Why the local police department hadn't called them in until now was a mystery, especially given the public nature of the murders. Well, maybe not so much. Reid knew that some LEO's couldn't accept the FBI stepping in on _their_ cases, particularly when they involved a lot of publicity. Promotion mongering at its finest.

Needless to say, these particular artists would be getting a lot more attention than they had probably anticipated. Reid would have felt sorry for them if he didn't know that even negative publicity would skyrocket sales of their artwork. Having rumors and scandal attached to them made them more valuable.

He paused. Now there was a thought. He'd have to bring it up when the team finally got back to the department. If there was a connection between the artists having their works hosted at all of the galleries…

"Oh my God," Emily's shout interrupted his train of thought and Reid's hand flew to his revolver.

"Emily? What is it?" he asked, creeping up behind her. He peered over her shoulder and froze, hand falling away from his gun.

"Reid" she asked, "what the hell is this?" She gestured at a segment reserved for the pieces by one artist, featuring a series of oil-paintings. All of them were portraits of various nudes, most of them women. Each had been painted in loving, painstaking detail. But there was one in particular…

'_Oh, God…'_ "Now Emily," he squeaked, "it really isn't a big deal…." Reid trailed off, not sure how to continue.

Emily ignored him. "We're going to need to bag this as evidence."

Not that the BAU even handled evidence, unless it was electronic (which would be given to Garcia) or occasionally photographs. Psychology and all. Did paintings even count? _'Of course they do. You can tell a lot about an artist through his or her works.' _Strangely, that thought really didn't make him feel any better. "Emily…"

The former Interpol officer snapped on a pair of gloves and gingerly removed the painting from its hook.

"Emily..."

"Come on Reid, we should get back to the department," she interrupted, not giving him a chance to explain.

He trailed after her dejectedly, and nearly tripped at his next thought.

'_Hotch, Morgan, and Rossi are going to see that. If they see it, Garcia is going to know about it.'_

There really was only one word to describe his feelings at that point.

'_Fuck.'_

0o0o0o0o

The remaining four members of the BAU looked up as Emily stalked inside their allocated room, slapping a canvas down on the table.

Morgan felt his eyebrows rise in shock and vaguely heard Rossi choke on his coffee. Hotch shifted uncomfortably and Seaver stared. Emily's gaze was full of suspicion, but underneath there was just a tiny hint of humor.

Reid looked completely mortified.

"What the hell is that?" Morgan finally choked out. There was no way. There was simply no freaking way.

But, staring back at him from canvas and paint, was Reid. Very noticeably naked, covered only the slightest bit of cloth as he posed sensually from what appeared to be velvet. A soft smile curled his lips upward, and his chocolate gaze was warm and inviting. And was that a tattoo on his hip…?

"You think this is personal?" Hotch asked Emily, gaze stubbornly at eye-level.

Morgan's gaze tightened. The odds of a painting of one of their team members being at a gallery they were investigating were astronomical. The painting was also nothing like Reid would ever consent to posing for; it was completely outside his comfort zone. Was he being stalked?

She nodded. "But I don't get how they knew we were coming," she said. "It's not like we're the only BAU team."

"It's not!" Reid interjected. "It's really not, I swear!"

Five sets of eyes shifted to the genius. "Reid…" Hotch started, mild warning coloring his tone.

"It's really not, I can explain," he stuttered. There was silence for nearly a full minute as he opened his mouth, blushed furiously, and closed it again.

"Well?" Hotch prompted.

"A few years ago I agreed to do a favor for a friend," he started. "He's an artist," he added, hands moving jerkily. "I was a bit short on cash at the time and he agreed to pay me and I'd hoped that it would help get him back on track if he started doing things legitimately…" Reid froze, as if he hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"What do you mean _legitimately_?" Morgan sputtered. "This friend of yours is a _criminal_?"

"Well…"

"Reid, I swear…"

"It's not like that!" he squawked. "Neal is one of the most non-violent people I have ever met, and he really is a good person! His, um, career path just left a bit to be, well, desired. And he hates guns! Our unsub used a gun!"

'_Well that didn't sound desperate at all_,' Morgan thought sarcastically.

That's when the rest of what Pretty Boy had said caught up to Morgan. "Wait a minute… _he_? You posed for this… for a _man_?"

Reid slapped a hand over his eyes and looked like he wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor. A low moan slipped from his mouth and he dropped boneless into a seat.

"I don't suppose you're going to just take my word for this are you?" he groaned, face hidden behind his hands. He sighed, answering his own question. "Of course not. Fine. Neal Caffrey," he began, rattling off a phone number and address.

Morgan and Emily immediately volunteered. Reid looked up at Hotch desperately, and he sighed.

"Yes Reid, you can go with them."

Morgan saw Hotch cast a quick glance at the painting and shake his head. Rossi still looked mildly shell-shocked and Seaver was trying to keep her eyes off of the painting as politely as possible.

He pulled out his cell-phone and quietly took a picture. If nothing else came from this, the painting would at least feed Garcia's imagination for a while. Maybe she'd even start Photoshopping someone other than him finally…

0o0o0o0o

Neal casually leaned back on his couch, idly pouring himself a glass of red wine. It was surprising, he mused, how nice it was to come home from a day of hard work and relax.

He sank into the cushions, relishing in the comfort of alcohol and soft pajama pants. At his side, Peter scowled.

"Did you really have to take your shirt off?" he asked, clicking the TV on to some sports channel.

"Of course not," Neal replied, languidly raising the glass for a sip. "But seeing as this is my home and my down time you're invading…"

Peter snorted. "You technically don't get any 'down time,'" he said, frowning when cheers came from a side full of red jerseys. "And this isn't your home anyway."

"I'm sorry, you're staying _where_ while El is away?"

Peter opened his mouth for a no-doubt scathing retort when a knock sounded at the door. "Expecting someone?" he asked instead.

Neal shrugged. "Nope."

"Moz?"

"Does not knock," he said, regretfully setting down his glass. He paused, then added, "At least not like a normal person." Stretching, he made his way to the door.

He pulled it open, blinking in surprise. "Spencer!" He hesitated slightly at the sight of the two, frankly rather intimidating, people beside him before getting out of the way and waving them inside.

It had been a long time since he'd seen the younger FBI agent (although he hadn't known that's what he was at the time). They'd met briefly before Neal had come to New York, and the kid had tried to change his mind more than once about his 'job.' It had almost worked, too, when he'd gone through a phase where he'd enjoyed painting models. But the work hadn't panned out, and he'd gone back to riskier methods of making money.

"I haven't seen you in a while," he greeted cheerfully. Peter glanced up from the couch curiously and made his way over to the group.

"So, who–"

"SSA Morgan and Prentiss," the broad, dark-skinned man interrupted, flashing a badge. "We're here about a portrait you painted a few years ago."

Neal's smile stayed miraculously fixed on his face, but he distinctly heard Peter sigh in exasperation. "Whatever it was, it's been five years," he said. "Statute of Limitations is up."

The dark-haired woman at his side raised an eyebrow. "Guilty conscience?" she asked, amused. "That's not what we're here about. We're actually here about a nude portrait you painted of him," she said, gesturing at Spencer.

Neal could feel Peter's incredulous gaze burning holes in his back and resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. This was going to bring up a few awkward questions… "What about it?" he asked, though he could guess. The murders had been plastered all over the news; he'd really picked an interesting time to dig all his old works out.

"It was recently displayed in a gallery connected to a series of murders; we just want to ask you a few questions."

"Now hold on," Peter interrupted, irritated. "Whatever else he may be involved in, Neal's not a murderer."

Neal felt a small amount of warmth curl in his insides at that.

"I'm sorry sir, we're not accusing your boyfriend of anything at the moment…" it was clear that she regretted assuming that as soon as the words left her mouth.

Peter froze. Neal knew that their behavior indicated an awful lot of closeness on their part that could be easily misinterpreted, but to hear it said outright… he coughed to stifle the sudden urge to laugh at the look on his partner's face.

"Peter Burke," he said stiffly, flashing his own credentials. "FBI. Neal Caffrey is my CI."

Morgan and Prentiss both looked slightly surprised, but Spencer was completely unruffled, watching the commotion with a sort of resigned amusement.

"I tried to tell you," he said to the pair of agents. "His, uh, handler, Burke, would know where he is at all times. There's really no reason to be here."

The pair traded a glance. "Well… what can you tell us about the galleries, then? Was there anyone out of place that you can recall?" They seemed determined not to waste the trip, and Neal had to smile to hide his amusement.

"Kind of hard to tell," he replied. "Artists tend to be rather… quirky."

Peter snorted, muttering something like 'look who's talking' under his breath. Neal shot him a look.

"But," he continued, "I know who's had pieces hosted at all nine of the galleries hit. Ryan Brookes."

"You never told me that!" Peter sputtered before the agents could respond.

Neal crossed his arms and raised a brow. "When I brought it up you just said murders weren't our jurisdiction. And that I'd complained last time so I shouldn't be hypocritical and step on another department's toes."

Spencer, apparently sensing an oncoming argument, interjected, "Thanks, Neal. That was very helpful, we should probably be going now…" His attempts to usher the two out the door failed.

"Wait!" Prentiss said, giving Neal a hard stare. She stepped right into his personal space and, while he normally wouldn't mind, he would definitely have preferred it if she didn't look as though she were trying to dissect him with her gaze alone. Leaning in more closely than he was strictly comfortable with (as far as unknown FBI agents were concerned, anyway) she whispered into his ear, "I have a friend who's birthday is coming up soon, do you think you could paint something for me?" His eyebrows shot to his hairline as she described what she wanted.

Neal glanced at Spencer and hummed thoughtfully. "Get me a picture of them, any pose should be fine, and I'll see what I can do. We'll talk specifics later," he added seriously. He didn't have the time if he wasn't getting paid.

Spencer immediately looked apprehensive. Neal didn't blame him.

0o0o0o0o

It only took another day to get the case wrapped up and the unsub in custody. Reid was pleased to note that Neal's advice had paid off, and when they'd gone to question Brookes he'd admitted to committing the murders to gain popularity for his art.

Hopefully the team could forget about the rest of it now that they were heading home.

Morgan had been disappointed by their meeting, but now that he didn't have an excuse to interrogate Neal he couldn't do anything about it. Unfortunately, that left Emily. Reid was too terrified to ask what she'd wanted Neal to do for her. And now that she was in contact with him…

Reid sighed and relaxed into his seat on the jet. At least the team wasn't talking about the damn painting anymore…

Rossi cleared his throat. "So, how long has modeling been your side-job?"

He spoke too soon.

0o0o0o0o

One Month Later

0o0o0o0o

Garcia shrieked as she tore open the present Emily had gotten her, featuring none other than her very own Chocolate God and Dr. Reid.

"Oh my God, Em, you have got to give me this guy's number!" she squealed. Photoshop was now obsolete.

Now she just had to hide this from Kevin. And figure out how to make Reid and Morgan actually do what was in the painting…


End file.
